Brilliant, Vast, Undying
by Scarecrowqueen
Summary: Fourth in the "Beautiful Insanity" series, follows from "Tarde Venientibus Ossa." One-sided Kirk/Spock, mentioned Spock/Uhura and Chekov/Sulu. Angst.


Disclaimer: If I owned them, there would have been a lot more eyesex in the movie. Not that there wasn't decent amount as is...

* * *

You don't drink often, anymore. Not like you used to, not when you had nothing going for you (nothing to lose.)

You have everything to lose now. Today, though, you let go. Bones drinks with you, flopped backwards on his bed, passing the bottle back and forth.

"Love has teeth" he says, eyes set to a dim point only he can see. "Love has claws. It scratches and snarls and feeds. You pay it your pound of flesh that way, and you don't get it back."

Today is the anniversary of his divorce. You say nothing, and let him keep the bottle.

* * *

You sit with Chekov on the observation deck, warp speed turning the stars into little glowing trails past the window. Usually you appreciate the quiet moments in the presence of one of your main (favorite) bridge crew members. Today though, you only have half an ear for the topic.

"Iz not so bad, this 'love,' Keptin." He says, face moon-pale and open (young)

Sulu appears in the doorway, summoning you both to shift. Chekov stands first, hand on your shoulder. "Maybe you too, soon?" His optimism earns an empty grin and a friendly clap on the shoulder, but you are a starship Captain, you do not live in maybes, only in 'Things You Must Do' or 'Things That Must Not Be Done' as the situation requires (and eventually, 'Do' or 'Do Not' will give way to 'Die.' You have no illusions about this.)

(You of all people should know, Cadet Kirk, a captain cannot cheat death.)

When Pavel leaves the room, Sulu is right on his heels. They walk before you, so close their shoulder's brush with every step. Neither seems to mind.

(Well then, love indeed!)

You realize your eyebrow has crept up in an unconscious pantomime of a certain Vulcan First Officer. You quickly correct your mistake, before anyone sees.

* * *

Meditation brings you no stillness today. Instead, you speak to yourself.

(Rather literally, in fact.)

Ambassador Selek intrigues you, as it is difficult now for you to postulate the changes that must occur, the knowledge that you must gain to eventually become him. (Dignified, benevolent, self-assured) It is somewhat of a novelty to request advisory from oneself, but you outline your predicament as best you can.

Afterwards, he is silent for a long time. You resist the illogical impulse to squirm.

"Much has changed, between our worlds." (The words seem very heavy to your Human ears, but your Vulcan mind brushes the thought aside)

"I will tell you now, as I did before; you must choose what feels right. I cannot be of influence here. Indeed you will find that, in my time, there was no such choice."

You (Vulcan) will draw the literal conclusion. - You (Human) will also know better, that this statement was made on many levels.

You bid him well, then return to your meditations. (Enlightened)

* * *

You hadn't told Nyota what happened between you and the Captain, the last evening you played chess together. In your limited knowledge of Terran social customs, it somehow seemed inappropriate.

You suspect she knows though, somehow. She watches with a strange eye, you standing next to your Captain, heads bent together over the schematic spread on the console. You are confused, you have done nothing wrong here, you don't believe. (There is a perfectly acceptable six-inch buffer between your bodies; almost ruler-perfect, in fact)

(Afraid to be close, afraid to be far)

You have not returned for another game of chess since that night, and while your exchanges on the bridge are a little more impersonal than they had been before, you are both consummate professionals who would never let a little… misunderstanding waylay you from performing your duties.

(Liar. Fear compels you, logic enslaves you.)

When shift ends, you escort her to the Mess Hall before continuing to the onboard labs. In concession to her unvoiced but recognized discontent, you allow her a (Terran) kiss as you part.

It is illogical, and a physical impossibility that the Captain's gaze on your back could feel like burning.

(but it does)

* * *

Nyota sits you down in her quarters weeks later. You know immediately that something is not right; she is exhibiting all her tells of emotional disturbance. Your inquiries into her wellbeing are met with a chuckle-turned-sob.

Your concern is a legitimate feeling. Your panic is illogical (ice down your spine)

"I know." She tells you. "I understand, really. I won't keep you any longer."

It takes you far too long to assimilate the fact that she's terminating your romantic liaison, distracted as you are by her obvious distress. You question her again on her state of health.

"No I'm not ok, not now, but I will be, you'll see." She kisses you on the cheek, one last time. (farewell) As you leave, she smiles through the tears. (so very very human, that is)

Some part of you believes her.

You wait a month to be sure.

* * *

Nyota's smiles for you are different now, but no less satisfying to see. You have begun spending time together again, and while it is also different, it is also pleasant in new ways.

Today though, you are not with Nyota.

Today you stand outside your Captains quarters.

He is noticeably surprised by your presence, which in and of itself is not surprising to you, as this is your first time seeking him out for anything not Enterprise-related since that last fateful chess game. (Weeks ago, now. The thought makes you feel illogically hollow.)

Today, you stand before the Captain (Jim) in plainclothes, apology on your lips, and peace offering in hand.

(Nyota's suggestion. - "Human's like little tokens like that," she'd said. She was never wrong.)

He listens silently as you muddle through a Terran apology, awkward with it in your unfamiliarity. You finish relatively unscathed, if flushed a little greener than usual, hands outstretched with your gift cradled between.

There are three full breathes between the moment you finish speaking and the moment he responds.

(Not that you are breathing)

"Forgiven," he says (and even if the accompanying smile is small and fragile, it makes the tight band across your chest loosen.)

His fingers brush yours as he takes the bright red apple from your palms. (You ignore the fissure down your spine, like quicksilver.)

* * *

One-point-two-one hours later, you are winning at chess, and Jim is laughing, relaxed in your presence in a way he hasn't been in months (forever!) The upward tilt of your lips is impossible to control.

You lift a Rook in a steady hand, and move in for the kill.

* * *

Sequel posted: 'Tying Up the Ends'


End file.
